To Dance On Sands

Dedication

I am grateful to my mother, Helen Beckett, for the happy creative childhood I had. The Christmas she gave me in Rose Valley was the most beautiful Christmas of my life. I thank my father, Henry Beckett, for exposing me as a four-year-old to the operetta ballet performances and stage presentations which helped me know that theater was the life I wanted and had to have. I am even grateful to Sioma Glaser who challenged me to create a dance company based on Oriental scenarios. Although he never came up with the money to back the venture, it woke me up to what I could do and the marvelous possibilities that created my Turkish fairytale, The Mirror, The Carpet, and The Lemon. From that challenge came Nat Jerome, a theatrical agent who, when watching me audition all the parts in The Mirror, The Carpet, and The Lemon, encouraged me to work on a one woman show of my own, playing all the parts instead of relying on a company of dancers. Thus was launched my program of dance pantomimes. I thank George Michaelson and Harold Alford for booking me on my first two tours for the University of Minnesota. Yes, and I thank Tom Williams for bringing me to Death Valley Junction where I began my second life. Most importantly I thank Tom Willet, affectionately known as Wilget, for sharing my creative and personal life for the last 23 years, from installing all the theater seats in the Amargosa Opera House to playing many parts in the twelve stage productions we staged together. Last but not least, I thank McDonald Harris for encouraging me to write my autobiography, for without that encouragement, this book might not have been written.  

Proteus:    Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart:Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity: 

For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews,Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones,Make tigers tame and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. 

After your dire-lamenting elegies,Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window 

With some sweet concert; to their instruments Tune a deploring dump: the night’s dead silence Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. 

This, or else nothing, will inherit her.

—Two Gentlemen of Verona Act Three, Scene Two Duke’s Palace 

Overture

All my friends and acquaintances from New York thought I had lost my mind when I told them about this old theater that had been abandoned for twenty years. When I told them I was planning to leave New York for good and make a new life for myself out in the desert, they were convinced that I was now a hopeless case and gave me up for good.  

Fifteen years passed before I heard from any of them. Perhaps they saw my picture and an article about me in a National Geographic they saw in some dentist’s office. The article told a story about this dancer from New York who performs every night in an abandoned theater in the desert whether anyone shows up or not. In fact, they even said I painted a Renaissance audience on all three walls of my theater so that I would be guaranteed an audience each performance night. This of course is untrue. I painted a Renaissance audience to surround my performance with an atmosphere complementary to what I performed. 

Of course, much of what has been written about me makes me seem crazy. It makes for good press. And of course, it makes gossip more fun. 

In 1967, on my birthday, I settled in the town of Death Valley Junction. When I arrived, this place wasn’t deserted. There was the old Amargosa Hotel which was operated by several families who were given a place to live in return. This of course did not mean they knew anything about operating a hotel. There was also a filling station across the road. Death Valley Junction Service, it read over the porte-cochere. 

Around the corner from our old post office and vacant general store was the Lila C Café. The same folks who ran the filling station ran the café as well. When business was brisk, the station hand, Smitty, could be seen climbing out from under a truck he was working on to fix a hamburger for a customer in the café without even bothering to wash his hands.  

When business was slow, they would close up for the rest of the day and invariably a tour bus would round the corner with passengers hoping to find a place to eat. The closed sign would signal them to go on. 

For a while there was a milk cow housed in a pen she shared with two jackasses by the filling station. An old bathtub inside the pen provided drinking water. She was milked every day. I never did find out if her milk was served in the Lila C Café. But the thought did enter my mind. 

To me, the most important building was Corkhill Hall, an empty theater left from the 1920s when the town served as a company town for the Pacific Coast Borax Company. This building is the reason I was here. It’s the reason I’m here now. This building, now the Amargosa Opera House, has been home to me. Nowhere else could I attain the artistic fulfillment I have found here. 

When I first came, I was to many, the crazy lady who moved out into the middle of the desert to run an opera house. To many I am not crazy anymore. Perhaps this is due to the fact that the Amargosa Opera House has survived and become successful. I enjoy the public approval. However, if my Opera House had not become successful, I would still be here struggling to support my art. This is not because I think my art to be great. It is because my art is necessary to me. The early years here were difficult. I was misunderstood, gossiped about, and even heard tales of my death more than once. I am very much here and very much alive. And now, almost forty years later, I am pleased to present my life.  

Scene One 

New York Beginnings 

I was born August 9, 1924, the same year Corkhill Hall, my future Amargosa Opera House, was built. 

My first home was at 405 Bleeker, a walk-up three story red brick building in New York City. Inside, the two and one-half room apartment held an Italian sofa, a fireplace, a grand piano, and a Victrola, with a big wing chair facing them. The rear windows looked out onto a courtyard lined with fire escapes. The sunlight made its way down this shaft only at noon. Each day Mother would set me out on the fire escape for my sun bath.  

Mother was melancholy most of the time. She would play sad songs on the piano and sing softly to herself. I began to associate Mother with sadness. 

Each afternoon Mother would take me down the street to Washington Square in an old wicker baby carriage. The butcher would give me a discarded chicken foot to play with on the way home.  

The voices of the street vendors, the bargaining housewives, and laughing children faded away on the trip back. Once we entered the dim light of our home, all the imposing pieces of furniture seemed to be waiting for something to happen. The Italian sofa was not at all comfortable. The wing chair was erect and hard, facing the piano as if waiting for the concert to begin. The Victrola was really the only functioning piece in the room, for it outplayed Mother’s sad pieces on the piano with its turntable constantly revolving to pour forth Paderewski, Kreisler, Caruso, Chopin and Schubert. I danced to them constantly. 

When Mother put me into the crib in the half room at dusk, she would give me a dozen colored handkerchiefs to play with. The neon light from the street corner shown in the window and I would make them dance, fluttering them over my head. 

One morning, I was carried into the front room and transferred into the arms of a man. The man rocked me from side to side and told me he was my father. He smiled at me, but his face seemed stern. He wore silver rimmed glasses that glinted in the dim light. Behind the glass panes, his eyes were blue. Mother’s were brown. My eyes were brown, also. For this reason, I am closer to my mother, I thought. 

My father’s name was Henry Beckett. Mother’s name was Helen. I called my father by the nickname of Mana, because he was a man. I could never get used to the idea of calling him Father.  

Sometimes we all three went out to dinner. Once after dinner Mana took us on a double-decker bus ride up to Lewisohn Stadium to see the Denishawn Dancers. We sat on great stone steps far from the stage and watched groups of dancers move like great tidal waves, to the accompaniment of Liszt’s Preludes. At home, Mother put me in my crib with the handkerchiefs. I would try to duplicate what I had seen. 

The next day, after my sunbath and nap, I awoke to find a pile of brilliant colored skirts and old evening dresses on the floor. The Victrola was playing the Preludes. I picked up a piece of lavender chiffon and floated around the room with it. Later, I discovered a huge tablet of newsprint on the floor and some crayons. I drew what I remembered from the magical performance of a few evenings before. 

Mana appeared again one afternoon and we took an underground train to a place where neon lights and theater marquees announced what was inside the huge structure. Mana showed a card to a gentleman standing at the entrance. He was dressed a bit like a tin soldier. Among the balustrades stood more soldiers whose only function was to show us to our seats. 

First there was a movie, then the curtain rose to reveal a fantasy land come to life. The orchestra played ballet music, and down on the stage a fairy tale unfolded starring Patricia Bowman and Leonide Massine. In my short life, I had never imagined such perfection. 

A line of beautiful ladies wearing feathers and plumes paraded out and I decided then that this was the life I wished to live. 

Later Mana took us backstage. It was like entering a magic box. I met the feathered ladies and was introduced to the real Mr. Roxy. 

Mana received free passes for theatrical events. His job was to write about them for the newspaper. Thanks to Mana’s work, I saw Harold Kreutzberg and Tilly Losch, the theater of Angna Enters, the Carnegie Hall concerts of Jascha Heifetz, Ignace Paderewski, the monologues of Ruth Draper and a one-woman show of Cornelia Otis Skinner. 

Aside from culture, Mana took me to Coney Island. The sound of barkers, roller coasters and music fused with the smell of popcorn and salt air, conjured up images that found their way onto my drawing tablet. Then there was the evening at Palisades Amusement Park. Here the crowds participated in the spectacle. The theater and ballet were both too exquisite to allow the audience to participate, just a peek, and then the memory to cherish. 

One day when Mana appeared, Mother gently and reluctantly ushered me toward him but didn’t go along. 

Are we going to the theater again? I asked. In silence my father put his arm around me and led me down the stairs. 

This was the first time we were alone. We walked to the entrance to the subway and as we waited, I kept wondering why my mother wasn’t with us. Mana said little. 

The train came, and after a few stops we got out and emerged into the street at the southeast side of Central Park. Mana led me to a horse drawn carriage, while a strange lady rose from one of the park benches and came toward us. 

This nice lady will be riding with us in the carriage, Mana said. 

I wanted to run home. Mana lifted me into the carriage. He sat me in the middle. The nice lady made small talk. Mana looked his stern self and I was numb. 

These outings with the nice lady sandwiched themselves between outings with Mother. I was beginning to notice Mana would leave money under the lid of the Victrola. Mother seemed to ignore it until after he had gone. Then she would reluctantly remove it. 

By the time I was five years old, Mana had saturated me in Richard Wagner, with the complete Ring Cycle. I did not care too much for these, they were long and everyone on stage seemed like immovable objects planted in the ground. I preferred to dance to Chopin and Kreisler. 

Hansel and Gretel was given every Christmas at the old Met. I went to the show in a red silk dress sent to me by my Aunt Anne, a hand-me-down from her daughter Betty Ann, a child prodigy at the piano. I had a small red silk purse that exactly matched the dress. Queena Mario sang Hansel. 

After the opera was over, we stepped out of this exquisite world onto the street. I wanted to stay and hold onto this experience which was decidedly more beautiful than the real world. 

Victor Herbert’s Babes in Toyland at the old Century Theatre, also led me to wonder why it all had to end. The next day the sun would shine brightly, the same way it had before, but the memory of my glimpses into fantasy lingered on.  

I cut the cherry colored satin sleeves from one of the evening dresses and put them on my legs for tights. I made a chiffon tunic from another evening dress and danced to Rosamund until I could no longer stand. 

Mother enrolled me in the Greenwich House Preschool. In interpretive dance class, we ran around with rainbow china silk scarves to Chopin. We had art lessons and listened to classical music sandwiched between naps, lunch and spoonfuls of liquid vitamins in the form of chocolate milk or orange juice. 

One day during our nap, I heard someone downstairs playing Chopin’s Prelude in A Major on piano. I rose from my cot, snuck to the balcony and looked over the railing. In the corner of the big empty room was the piano with a teacher playing. I crept downstairs. The woman playing didn’t notice. I began to dance to the music. When she finished playing, I stopped my dance and held a pose on the final chord.  

A woman came out of the shadows, lifted me up and carried me back to my cot. For a short time the real world didn’t exist. I knew whatever motivated me to dance was not confined to home. Whether anyone watched me was unimportant. There was something inside me that was my reason for living. 

Frequently I was taken out alone where Mana could meet the nice lady. My father called her Helen. Mother’s name was Helen, too. I wondered if all women were named Helen and all men Henry. Perhaps when I was grown, my name would be Helen, too. Maybe Martha was just a child’s name. 

I began having terrible nightmares. The light bulb which hung over my head from a giant octopus of electric wires would dim on and off and a woman’s voice singing an eerie song would emanate from it. The creases in my bed sheets would lengthen and become serpents. I would let out a scream and Mother would come in and try to comfort me. 

When she turned off the light and left, the dreams returned. That afternoon Mana came to take me away from Mother to meet the nice lady. A long cardboard box lay on the floor in front of her. Mother and Mana were both smiling at me. Mother said, Open the box, it is your birthday present from Cousin Jane. 

Inside lay an enormous rag doll almost as large as I was. I lifted her out of the box. She stood as tall as I. 

Cousin Jane made this rag doll for you, Mother said. 

I looked again at the doll whose broad face smiled back at me from a row of stitches, I will name her Echo, I said. 

She went with me everywhere and sometimes her presence seemed to subdue the nightmares. She was more friend than toy. I had a little wooden duck which I also considered a friend. 

One Christmas I was given a set of building blocks. They were oblong, square, cylindrical, and curved with instructions on how to build. It didn’t take me more than one afternoon to decide they were to become people. Only the curved blocks remained for building, and these became rows of seats as if in a theater. The other blocks became people who sat in the seats, and the tall cylindrical and oblong blocks became the cast in a play which I made up as I went along.  

Echo watched the plays and went with me for my sunbaths, too. From my vantage point, I noticed the empty storeroom on the first floor of our building. I saw Mother behind the clouded window.  

Later, Mother took me inside and I noticed the storeroom filled with pieces of furniture you would find in a museum. Mother let me stay while she worked. Tables with legs representing winged griffins standing on lion’s feet stared back at me. Mother was recreating a whole world of the past on these rejected pieces of furniture she had bought from junk stores. 

Mother’s preoccupation with this new interest kept her busy. She seemed happier. 

My interlude at Greenwich House ended and I was put in a private preschool. The children there were the offspring of famous people — writers, actors and professionals — my father was simply a newspaper reporter. Mother was a housewife. 

This new school specialized in group activities. Either we were all building a bridge, mining coal, or group singing. Dance class tried to make us conform, doing the same movements at the same time. The freedom I had at Greenwich House was gone.  

Mother now had a determination in everything she did. We are going to Harrisburg, she said. That’s where I was born, and you and I will live at Grandmother’s for a few days. 

When I asked if Mana was going too, Mother’s no gave me a sense of relief.  

The move was completed by the end of my fifth summer. 

Scene Two  

Harrisburg 

Mother took me to Maude Firestone’s boarding house. Maude and mother had been friends since childhood. Mother had an exciting life before she married Mana, but Maude remained home to help her mother run the boarding house. 

You’ll be staying here until I come for you, Mother said. I must go back to New York and get another load of our things then we’ll live with Grandmother until we can find an apartment. 

She kissed me and then left me in the hallway. I looked up at Maude. She smiled, and then shepherded me into the front parlor where her elderly mother sat in an overstuffed chair.  

The room was filled with furniture, a large brown velour davenport, chairs, and a small table with a lamp wearing a fringed lamp shade.  

A huge dark wood box sat up against the wall opposite the davenport. It had a cathedral-like design with knobs in a row.  

Maude turned several of the knobs and the room filled with the sounds of Dixieland jazz. I was transfixed. The cathedral radio, was the source of many an evening’s entertainment: Amos and Andy, Guy Lombardo, Lowell Thomas, and Major Bowe’s Amateur Hour. 

When Mother finally came for me to take me to Grandmother’s, there was a little sadness upon leaving the boarding house. But I was happy to be with Mother again. 

Grandmother’s house was a large brick house in a row of other large brick houses. A small hall led into the dining room filled with light. The hallway seemed to bypass a dark parlor on the left which had heavy drawn drapes and sheets spread over huge pieces of sleeping furniture. In the corner of the dining room stood a grandfather clock with a smiling sun and moon which slowly played hide-and-seek with each other as time ticked on. My grandmother was a tiny subdued lady with pitch black hair, even though she was very old. 

When we arrived, Cousin Jane and her mother were there as were a number of other relatives. We didn’t stay long at Grandmother’s.  

Mother seemed happy for the first time, and I remember the two of us walking down the brick sidewalk. I looked up at her contented, and she was humming to herself. She actually looked beautiful. I told her that I liked her look.  

When we left Grandmother’s, our taxi stopped in front of the house kitty-cornered from a huge stone library. Next to a small flight of marble stairs was a storefront window full of Mother’s beautiful period furniture. 

In the front hallway Mother unlocked another door with a glass window at the top and we stepped inside a huge front room, the light streaming in from the store window which looked out on Walnut Street. Inside was more of Mother’s furniture. The grand piano was there, but the Victrola and the big wing chair were gone. 

In the corner was a crate full of my block people, my costume box, and my newsprint sketch pad. Echo was seated on top. 

We’re home, Mother said. I ran into her open arms.  

There was a combined happiness and a sense of relief knowing that we could live our lives without Mana. 

After a bite of lunch, Mother began unpacking, while I opened up my crate and spread my fantasy world in the back room with my block people who now could continue their lives. The rich and the well-to-do block people lived in Broudrich Farms. The poor lived in Polecat Ridge. 

That fall I was enrolled in the Bose School uptown from where we lived. It was a sprawling one story building with a front yard for recess. I loved it and made friends quickly. 

These children were very different from those in New York. There was Nana, with bangs all the way around the head. I begged Mother to let me have my hair cut like hers, but she would have none of it. Then there was Geraldine, who wore a different freshly starched dress each day, but all the same style. She had a shingle bob. 

I had to keep my hair shoulder length and wear lace-up shoes instead of Mary Janes. Worse than anything, I grew taller than everyone else. I was a string bean. Even though I was unlike the others, this was one of the happiest of times of my childhood.  

Others walked to school by themselves, but Mother always accompanied me. I asked her why she didn’t let me go by myself. She reluctantly told me she was afraid I would be kidnapped and taken back to New York. We had moved away from Mana, but that did not mean he ceased to exist. 

Reading and writing came naturally for me. The simple art lessons, painting a flower pinned up on the blackboard, were confining. 

After mother’s furniture business got a little busier, she hired a black girl named Alice to walk me to school. Alice decided to take me the round-about route through her neighborhood. 

She lived in a house in an area the neighbors referred to as dark town. She took me inside and introduced me to the entire family, which consisted of her grandma, grandpa, mother, and younger sister and brothers who were playing on the cracked linoleum floor strewn with toys and chewed chicken bones. A large dog in the corner of their parlor had a litter of puppies. 

I enjoyed these visits to Alice’s house, with the smell of brand new oilcloth on the table and a faint aroma of dog. They seemed more relaxed than anyone I knew. When I got home, I made sketches on my newsprint pad. 

This was the way mother found out that Alice had not taken me to school, but home to meet her folks. There were also a few notes of absenteeism from school. So Alice was relieved from her responsibilities. 

One day while playing, I happened to find some letters in Mother’s desk. Deciphering what I could, I learned the letters were from Mana. The final paragraphs revealed that he was coming to Harrisburg to take me back to New York. My eyes welled up with tears. I couldn’t believe it. I ran to Mother. 

Yes she said, He’s even been here when we didn’t know it. This is why I take you to school. 

Mother dried my tears and said, I have to tell you something dear. I’ve put it off as long as I could, but now I can not wait any longer, and time is running short. Mana is coming next week to visit, but I’ll be right near by. I won’t let him take you. 

Mother and I hugged each other and sobbed. I finally cried myself to exhaustion. 

Mana turned up with presents under his arms. There was no joy in this reunion, just the somber look of resignation on Mother’s face, and silent submission on my part.  

With Mana, there was anxiousness in his face whenever he looked at me. We walked to the Susquehanna River Park. Mana sat on a bench and I was shepherded by Mother to sit next to him. Then Mother went away and sat on a bench around the corner from the tree. She made sure that she could see me. 

I felt safer knowing she was present. I wondered how I could divide myself in two so that each one could have a half of me. Would they be happier? I thought. I wondered if my existence brought them any happiness. If not for me, they wouldn’t have to see the other again.  

Mana brought out the presents, the book Jacques at the Window, a game called Stick-Stack and a box of pastel colored peppermints. After the visit, Mana said he’d be back in two weeks. 

Grandmother was ailing and she was going to be sent to a nursing home or hospital. However, prior to this she came to visit for a few days. Although the apartment and storeroom were small we all managed to sleep in the combined quarters.  

Unfortunately, I was beginning to have the nightmares again. The same phantoms I had endured in New York were returning. This was very hard on Grandmother. She was soon sent away. Not long after Grandmother was gone, there was great sobbing in the front room. Mother had always idolized her mother, as if on a pedestal.  

Not much was ever said about Grandfather whose image in the family portrait was of a dignified mustachioed gentleman seated in a painted garden with a wife and six children. There had been seven children, but the first, a daughter named Ruth, died from blue heart. 

I found old photographs of my grandfather holding me in his arms after I was a few months old. All I ever learned was that he was a steelworker who worked in Steelton, Pennsylvania, took the trolley to work, and drank beer.  

Grandmother worked hard to raise the six children; cooked, ironed, sewed all their clothes, cleaned, and baked pies. Grandmother was a saint in Mother’s eyes. However, Mother said Grandfather did the laundry in a washing machine he built in the basement. 

There were happy times in Harrisburg. Summer evenings we went to the dance boat, which docked on the river on weekends. A dance band played, while women in flowered georgette dresses and the men in white linen suits danced. Colored lanterns bobbed to and fro in the warm breezes. It prompted me to wonder where my mother fit in all of this. I was constantly reminded Mother had no one. In my childlike way I tried to be that someone for her, but even in our good times when we laughed and played together, I felt inadequate. 

Periodically a woman named Mrs. Orth would come and visit Mother. She had papers with her, and the conversation was about money. Mother began not opening her furniture shop until afternoon. In the mornings now she left the apartment and went to a place she called her office. After she took me to school each morning she got to her office at ten o’clock and remained there until three o’clock. Then she would pick me up at school. 

Mother had a few orders, and even had a large order from an Anglican minister’s wife. But these orders were few and far between. Her interest in her shop was dwindling and her office took precedence. 

Mrs. Orth took Mother and me to lunch at the Harrisburger hotel, and I enjoyed my bacon and tomato sandwich on toast and a glass of chocolate milk in the elegant dinning room. The conversation between Mother and Mrs. Orth was very uninteresting to me. Again it was about money; money that might be there if they made the right move. 

Mother took me to her office, which was a busy place consisting of an audience seated on chairs in front of a narrow platform on which two boys darted about changing numbers on a big blackboard that covered almost the whole wall. Above this big blackboard was a long narrow lighted window with a Trans-Lux with faded numbers and symbols on it. A glass bubble spewed out tape and clicked nervously. Businessmen stood at this bubble reading from it obsessively. Mother sat in the front row with her eyes glued to the Trans-Lux as if nothing else existed. 

Her moods followed the market, and the mother I thought I knew and loved was now turning into an obsessed and frightened woman. Her furniture store was neglected, and it was impossible for me to penetrate her new world. 

Nevertheless, I was still happier than in New York. My schoolmates and I got along very well. There was Clarabelle Lovelace who came home with me and we played, and Honora, an Italian girl who lived around the corner through the back alley. 

Then there was Jack Born next door. We played, pretending we were climbing like monkeys. The Fager boys lived next door, too. Their father, Dr. Fager had his office on the first floor. 

On my eighth birthday, Honora and Clarabelle came over to celebrate. While sitting and pouring over my presents on top of stairs leading into the back yard, I fell and broke my arm.  

Mother rushed me to Dr. Fager where my arm was supposedly set right. However, it was set incorrectly which resulted in it being broken and set over and over. The visits to Dr. Fager for these nightmares continued well into early winter. 

Mother took me to see an acquaintance, an osteopath named Dr. Ruth Deeter who planned to heat bath my arm. Dr. Deeter wore a gray cape and her presence was slightly intimidating. She seemed to have a lot of influence over Mother.  

The doctor had a country place, and she invited Mother and me to go there on weekends. I loved going there. It was just Mother and me and I love the country. Dr. Deeter’s house was full of antiques. Even her china was antique. The old house provided me with a temporary peace. I loved it there so much, I hated to leave. 

One weekend we went on a trip to see my Uncle Paul Bittner. He lived in a huge old farm house with his twelve children. His wife had died and now Uncle Paul went every Sunday to a spiritualist tent out in the country to receive messages from a medium. 

Once we all went to go to the tent meeting with him. It was starting to drizzle. Everyone was huddled under the huge tent while a woman stood in the center with a large horn through which messages from the other world came. 

There was also Edna who wore a long black dress and a small white cap tied under her chin. She, too, had a daughter named Martha, about the same age as I, who was being groomed for missionary work. 

There was another distant cousin who lived in Hazelton. Mother allowed me to go alone on the trolley to visit occasionally. It was another large family who lived in a wooden farm house next to a huge corn field. At dinner time the table was amply laid with corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, boiled beef, and a plate piled high with white bread. Milk was constantly poured into glasses as soon as they emptied.  

When Mother came with me to Hazelton, the middle daughter, Rosey, was asked to go put on her costume and do her dance. Eagerly she returned in a pale green tutu and pink toe slippers. At a cue from her mother she went up on her toes for a moment, and then slowly sunk down into a split. I was transfixed. 

What do I have to do to become as beautiful as that? I wondered. 

Rosey struggled to her feet and ran shyly to her mother who explained, That is what she’ll learn in her next lesson, how to rise out from the split gracefully, isn’t it dear? 

For weeks I asked my mother to let me take toe dancing lessons so that I could do what Rosey did. No one taught toe dancing in Harrisburg and even if there had been a teacher, Mother couldn’t afford it. 

Mother moved us into the rear apartment and gave up the store. The apartment in the rear was roomy, and I had my own bedroom. The yard was all mine now, and Mother allowed me to dominate the apartment with my world of block people. 

The gentleman who had occupied the apartment taught singing and had a very beautiful wife, an American Indian. She died there in a huge four poster bed. He left the bed to us when he returned to New York. It was difficult for me to sleep in a bed where I knew someone had just passed away. However, I did get used to it and didn’t even have nightmares about it. 

Mana still came to visit each month. Later in the evening mother would invite a girlhood friend of hers named Esther Allen and her son Roger to come help dispel the tension generated by the visit from Mana. Roger and I played with poster paint and newsprint followed by hot cocoa and marshmallows. 

At Christmas Cousin Jane gave me a beautiful lavender flowered organdy dress. After a visit from Mana, Roger and his mother were expected in the evening to celebrate the holiday. I put on the lavender organdy dress and stood by the Christmas tree like a stiff doll for the entire evening. No one could budge me. I stared straight ahead as if my eyes were glass doll’s eyes. I didn’t care what Roger and his mother thought. I was a doll and it seemed Mother wasn’t concerned in the least. I was a doll wearing a beautiful lavender organdy costume. 

There was a movie theater in Harrisburg that for one performance only was presenting Singer’s Midgets for a matinee. Mother made sure I was to see this attraction and made arrangements to pick me up at school early that day. I felt privileged as I walked out of the school earlier than anyone else.  

When we arrived at the theater and got settled in our seats right down front, we were first presented with an Our Gang movie, then came the overture. Suddenly the stage lights hit the red velvet curtain like a bombshell of color. The small orchestra sounded the cue for the curtains to part. On stage was an elaborate north pole scene, complete with icebergs and frozen mountains, and, in the distance, thirty tiny penguins stood looking like miniature nuns. Suddenly they moved to the music in unison and trailed around the set between the icebergs and frozen cliffs with perfection. It was sheer magic. The curtain had yawned open to a magical world that allowed us out front to peek at for a short while. Then all too soon the curtain closed leaving us in a sort of stupor, out in the real world again. I wondered whether the penguins continued to dance between the icebergs even though the curtain closed. 

Dr. Deeter came often to check on Mother’s health. Mother’s office activities caused her to worry. She would be happy one day, sad the next. The roller coaster moods went up and down like a chart, and I began to be affected by them. Even my block people reflected these moods. 

Mother was talking to herself at the dinner table and sometimes would turn to an invisible entity next